


Let Me

by Keater



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Cuddling & Snuggling, Diapers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Feeding Bottles, Infantilism, M/M, Multi, Nonsexual Ageplay, Wetting, daddy - Freeform, mommy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-15
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:33:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keater/pseuds/Keater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was certain that if Sherlock admitted to himself that he wanted this as much as Greg knew he did, and gave him, and this, a chance, they could both be incredibly happy.</p><p>***HEAVILY REVISED AND UPDATED CHAPTERS***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Asking

**Author's Note:**

> I can't compose a large enough apology to all who follow this story. The time it has taken for me to return to this story has been far longer than I had intended. Major conflicting circumstance arose in my life, and inspiration for my writing fled. But I am back and more than ready to continue this tale, starting with seven heavily updated chapters and brand new material on the way. Thank you to all who have stood by this story, I can't wait to provide you with new content. 
> 
> And as always, I'd love to hear from you all. 
> 
> Happy reading, you lovely lot :)

"Oi! Sherlock." DI Gregory Lestrade quickly chased after the speeding tails of a retreating Belstaff coat. "Sherlock! I know you hear me! Stop!"

Greg raced down a flight of winding stairs and through the front doorway of a recently deceased victim’s flat, one which Greg had begged Sherlock to come to not even an hour ago, and into London’s bitter night air. Greg looked around and spotted the Detective walking quickly to the edge of the yellow police tape-off. He quickened his pace until his fingers gripped expensive fabric. The Inspector spun Sherlock around to face him.

Sherlock turned, knocking Greg’s hand off his coat and stepped back a pace, creating distance between himself and the insistent man.

“Wait, please—”

“They're utter idiots, Lestrade! Sheer incompetence parading about in the Yard's uniforms,” Sherlock sneered.

“Sherlock,” Greg sighed. “They’re just not as quick as you. They’re a little intimidated by—,” Greg started.

“Oh, that _is_ rich. They’re daunted in the presence of common sense?” Sherlock snorted. “Oh yes, what a qualified team you’ve assembled, Detective Inspector.”

Greg felt awful. The look in Sherlock’s eyes, Greg’s mind couldn’t help but travel back to a time when that look was a permanent fixture on Sherlock’s face. The times when Greg saw Sherlock standing on the skirts of a crime scene, alone, watching and waiting for a chance to prove himself. Or the time he raided a drug den looking for a potential murderer and instead found Sherlock, unmoving, barely breathing, lifeless eyes staring at the ceiling.

Greg would never forget that look, how Sherlock had clung to him afterwards, desperately pleading for Greg to help him. And when Greg held him close as the paramedics raced to find them, and Sherlock’s quiet voice had rasped against the DI’s ear, pitifully small...when Greg had sworn he’d heard Sherlock call him Da--

 _No, NO_. He wouldn’t think of that night.

When Greg had tried to confront Sherlock afterwards, desperate to share his feelings with the person who had felt more like a little boy than a man in his arms, he was never granted the chance. Sherlock avoided any mention of that night, and for all Greg knew, he had forever lost his chance to tell the Consulting Detective how much he wanted to hold Sherlock in his arms again.

And now, standing in the back alley off a main street, rain beginning to fall, the look on Sherlock’s face was the same as that night long ago.

And Greg’s heart almost broke at the sight.

Sherlock may act the part of a superior intellect who claimed to be unaffected by emotion, but Greg knew better.  

“Sherlock, I’m sorry.” Greg reached to clasp Sherlock’s coat. “I’m so sorry. Please just stay, let’s talk--”

“You’ll have your case completed, Lestrade,” the Consulting Detective spoke softly, backing away towards the main street, no doubt to try and hail a cab. Greg looked down at Sherlock’s hands which shook slightly inside the fine fabric of his pockets. “Like your team said, freaks are exceptionally good at things like this.”

Before the DI could speak again, Sherlock was gone, melding seamlessly with the dark London night.

Greg shook his head sadly, staring at the point where Sherlock had disappeared, where Sherlock had once again left his presence, looking to the world like a lost little boy.

No. Greg refused to let this happen again, refused to let Sherlock disappear from him when the thing he needed most was someone’s love and care.

He was going to make this right. There were few things in this world he hated more than when Sherlock Holmes looked like he did tonight—closed off, defeated, like a puppy deprived of affection during a storm or an ill little one denied a cuddle. Greg couldn’t stand it, the thought that Sherlock, brilliant as he was, honestly believed his presence was only wanted when there was an unsolvable murder or puzzle.

He wanted to see the Consulting Detective smile and laugh, a carefree soul. He wanted the boy that he knew when they had first met, the figure he had held against his chest that ill-gotten night.

Greg turned to face the crime scene with a stony face. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I promise to make this right.” He had a number of choice words for his team.

**< ><><>**

Sherlock slammed the door to 221b open and glided up the stairs as quick as he could. Details from the case raced before his eyes, and the Consulting Detective was determined to banish every thought not pertaining to the work from tonight from his mind. Because if he stopped for a moment to allow his thoughts to wonder… _No, no_! Caring is not an advantage.

Sitting before his microscope, Sherlock briefly looked up from the sample on his slide to see John sitting in his armchair, staring intently at him.

John cleared his throat.

“Rough case?”

Sherlock didn’t answer.

“I see,” John said. “I _am_ sorry I couldn’t be there, but Sarah was down three doctors to the flu, and there was an emergency surgery, and...did I say I was sorry—”

“John, please cease your rambling. I do, in fact, understand.”

“You…understand,” John asked in disbelief.

“I do. And I would like to return my focus to this sample of Peruvian soil found underneath a murdered nanny’s fingernails, if you would allow me to do so.”

“Of course, yeah. Do you need anything? I Still feel a bit guilty about dodging off tonight. I could make a run to the store, pick up some of those buiscuts you like. When was the last time you ate?”

“Hmm.”

“Not an answer, Sherlock. I’m getting the buiscuts.” John stood from his chair and walked to the door of their flat, stuffing his wallet and phone in his pockets. “Anything else?” Not expecting Sherlock to answer, John walked through the door. He stopped when he heard a small voice respond.

“Paddington’s Milk.”

John turned to look at Sherlock’s perched back and shook his head fondly.

“Be back in a bit.” John’s footsteps echoed down the stairs and out the front door. Sherlock refocused his microscope and peered at his sample of soil.

**< ><><>**

An hour had passed, in which time Sherlock had successfully determined the soil underneath Nanny Weston’s fingernails had in fact been planted by her employer, an adulterous husband attempting to conceal his affair by framing his estate’s gardener. 

Reaching for his phone, he barely paid any mind as he texted his conclusion away.

**Find the husband. –SH**

Greg’s mobile vibrated against the wood of his nightstand.

The man in question was rummaging through his closet with a smile on his face, arranging boxes and taking out others. Reaching inside a plastic container, Greg removed a large stuffed bee. The DI rubbed his fingers lightly over the glossy wings and black stripes and leaned to place it next to his beeping mobile. Greg reached for his mobile.

Seeing Sherlock’s initials on the screen, a small smile curved the Detective Inspector’s lips. It had taken his Consulting Detective only an hour to solve this one, giving Greg only a short time to prepare for his plan.

Looking at the text, Greg thought of how the two had departed earlier that night and his smile disappeared. Taking the phone in hand, he started to type.

**Thank you, Sherlock. Pop over for a statement? –GL**

**No. –SH**

**There’s paperwork to fill out. –GL**

**Not my area. –SH**

**Please Sherlock, I need your statement. –GL**

There was no answer. Four minutes passed and Greg typed again.

**I’ll let you look over a cold case. –GL**

**As tempting as that sounds, no. –SH**

At this, Greg had to smile. Of course, his boy knew his worth.

**Two? –GL**

**No. –SH**

Ten seconds passed.

**Five. No less. –SH**

Greg rolled his eyes in exasperation.

**Five it is. –GL**

**Your office, thirty minutes. –SH**

**No, my place. I’m home for the night. –GL**

Knowing the promise of cases meant Sherlock was on his way, Greg put his phone back on the nightstand and sat back, looking around at his supplies. Smiling a little, he thought of his plans for the evening. He was certain that if Sherlock admitted to himself that he wanted this as much as he knew he did, and gave him, and this, a chance, they could both be incredibly happy.

Sherlock had been in a decline for a long time. When John came into the picture, it seemed like things had gotten better. But Greg understood Sherlock better than others. He saw that his Consulting Detective was falling through the cracks of his fragile self. And the Detective Inspector has no intention of letting Sherlock self-destruct anymore than he already had.

It was with no trepidation that Greg got up from the floor of his bedroom and made his way to the sitting room. He would give Sherlock a taste of what it could be like together and gauge his reaction. Greg only hoped that Sherlock would let him explain before he got knocked across the face.

**< ><><>**

The door to Greg’s apartment burst open exactly thirty minutes later. Sherlock strode in, coat tails dramatically flowing behind him. Greg got up from the couch and walked towards the kitchen.

“You know, most people knock,” Greg said, reaching inside his fridge. “Thirsty?” Sherlock walked to the couch and sat down, perching his feet up on the top of Greg’s table. The Consulting Detective rolled his eyes and held his hand out.

“My cold case,” Sherlock said expectantly. Greg grabbed a water for himself and a dark blue and green sippy cup full of cold milk and walked back from the kitchen to the couch, handing the brunette the lidded cup.

Greg laughed lightly at Sherlock’s confused expression.

“Drink up, silly boy. You look like you need a little something in your tummy,” Greg said sweetly, looking down at the figure on his couch.

“Lestrade, what the hell are you on about—”

“No, no, there’s no swearing, love.” Sherlock looked down, slightly admonished. His expression was baffled as he timidly looked up from the cup in his hand to the man smiling down on him. “Take a sip and I’ll let you take a look at a case.” Sherlock looked ready to chuck the cup at Greg’s head. “Just a sip, Sherlock. Please, for me?”

Something in Greg’s warm eyes prompted Sherlock to raise the cup and wrap his lips around the coloured spout. Sherlock sucked and sighed softly, eyes falling shut, as cold, refreshing milk hit his taste buds. Sherlock didn’t even realize his cup was halfway empty when he opened his eyes to see Greg had perched himself on the coffee table before him.

The Inspector smiled and looked at Sherlock with pride. Reaching up, Greg tucked an errant curl behind Sherlock’s ear.

“That’s a good boy,” Greg spoke softly. “Daddy’s very proud.”

If Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t been filled with sudden dread and fear, it would have been almost comical how fast those bright orbs widened. Sherlock’s cup fell to the floor and the man himself tried to quickly rise from the couch. Greg grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and pulled the younger man to his chest. Sherlock struggled against his hold.

“Release me at once, Lestrade!” Greg started to run his fingers through Sherlock’s curls, trying desperately to calm the struggling man.

“It's alright, love, calm down. You were so brilliant today, Sherlock. I don’t say that enough, but that’s going to change. You are so extraordinary.” Sherlock gave a great shove and broke free from Greg’s grasp.

“Lestrade, what the hell is going on,” Sherlock asked heatedly, backing away. Looking into Sherlock’s eyes, Greg tried to read his face. There was confusion, an expression Greg had never before seen on the man’s face. There was a little bit of anger. There was…sadness? Greg took a step closer to him with his hands raised defensively.

“Sherlock, there’s something I've wanted to talk to you about, since that night at the drug den,” Greg spoke softly. Upon seeing Sherlock’s incredulous expression, Greg moved to stand between the younger man and the door. “Just let me explain, yeah?”

Although Greg could see that Sherlock wanted to leave, his hunt for knowledge won out and he stared into the older man’s eyes expectantly.

“I care about you, Sherlock, so much,” Greg whispered. The brunette snorted and Greg was quick to defend himself. “Oh, love. I do, so, so much. Ever since that night, I’ve been waiting to hold you in my arms again and protect you from the world.” He took a deep breathe. “You’re falling, Sherlock. And I want to catch you.”

Sherlock turned furious eyes onto Greg.

“Why are you mocking me like this? I thought you were my friend. Oh, but freaks don’t have friends, do they?”

Greg slowly reached behind a chair closest to his side and pulled out the large stuffed bee, a gift he had been saving for quite some time.

Sherlock’s eyes focused on the stuffed animal immediately and Greg stepped close enough to place the soft bundle in Sherlock’s hands, watching as fingers instinctively gripped its soft body.

“Daddy wants to catch you, Sherlock.”

Tears sprouted from wide eyes and the most pitiful whimper Greg had ever heard fell from loose lips.

“Oh, love,” Greg whispered fiercely and quickly gathered Sherlock to his chest.

 “Why are you mocking me like this? I’m a f-freak, your own team says so.”

Sherlock tried to no avail to release himself from the older man’s grip. Sherlock’s strength was his mind. Greg’s was his, well, strength. He held tight to the squirming body in his grip, content to not let go until he had had his say.

“Now you listen here, young man! You are not a freak and if I hear that word come out of your mouth again there will be consequences!” Lestrade took a deep breath and continued. “You are my perfect little boy and you make me so proud. Daddy loves you so much, Sherlock.”

That was all it took for Sherlock’s to completely crumple.

Deep, shuddering sobs left Sherlock’s lips as he gripped his bee in one hand and Greg’s shirt with the other. The DI used his height to his advantage by pulling Sherlock’s head to rest on his shoulder as he tightened his other arm around the smaller man’s waist. While Sherlock fell prey to his emotions, Greg held him tight, vowing to never let go of this amazing being in his arms.

“I love you, Sherlock. I want to protect you, comfort you, make you smile, make you laugh. I will never mock you. Ever.” Sherlock lifted his head from Greg’s shoulder to look in the taller man’s eyes. Greg’s own were beginning to water, a light red tinge sparkling against his blue irises. When the bundle in his arms spoke, his voice was quiet, confused.

“You love me,” Sherlock whispered, sounding so very young. Greg nodded and smiled, leaning forward to kiss Sherlock lightly on his forehead.

“I love you,” Greg repeated with more sincerity than he had ever shown. Sherlock looked down at his bee, then to his cup lying upon the floor with wanting in his eyes. Greg followed his eyes.

The DI guided them both down to sit on the couch, with Sherlock slotted into his chest sideways, curly head resting on his shoulder. Greg leaned over to pick the sippy cup from the floor and, after dusting the spout off with a corner of his shirt, lifted to cup to rest against Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock looked down, eyes almost crossing, and rubbed a satiny bee wing anxiously between his fingers.

“I’d take care of you, little love, if you’d let me. I’d watch over you emotionally and physically because I love you. All I want to do is take care of you, hug you, carry you, feed you, play with you, make you laugh. Love you.”

Even if this didn't work, Lestrade would always do the last one. Greg took a deep breath and looked deep into Sherlock’s eyes. “You only need to trust me.”

Sherlock looked up from his drink into Greg’s eyes and slowly opened his mouth, pulling the cup’s stout between his lips. Cold, smooth milk filled his mouth once again, and the little detective’s eyes fell shut in pleasure.

 


	2. I Want To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a long pause when Greg honestly thought that Sherlock would stand up and leave. Knock him across the face, of course, and then leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock let's Greg. And it opens up a whole new world for them.

The time Sherlock spent lying in Greg’s arms, with his curly head buried into the DI’s neck and his two sock-covered feet contentedly rubbing together, was far more than Greg ever thought he’d be blessed with. Sherlock eyelids were still, his limbs lethargic and while not yet asleep in Greg’s arms, he was calmer than he had ever seen him.

Every so often Sherlock let out a deep, contented breath into the skin of Greg’s neck. The DI would rub and pat the long expanse of Sherlock’s back until his breathing settled back down.  

Just when he thought the bundle in his arms had finally fallen asleep, a face peeled from Greg’s warm skin. The curled figure opened his mouth, then closed it. He shook his head, let out a small sigh and opened his dark blue eyes to stare into Greg’s.

“I…I do,” Sherlock whispered. Greg looked confused for a moment. He grabbed Sherlock’s hand, marveling for a moment at how his own was able to surround the one he held.

“Do what, sweetheart?” Greg rubbed his warm thumb in a soothing motion over Sherlock’s cheek.

“Trust you.”

Sherlock’s eyes drifted briefly to stuffed bee firmly secured in his grip. He thought the bee in his hands was warm and soft, and he longed to hug it to his chest and rub his face in its inviting fur. He could imagine the bee might make a good friend. He didn’t have too many friends. But the man holding him had given him one.

Sherlock’s voice was timid, something Greg hadn’t heard from the boy in front of him in a long time. He lightly grasped Sherlock’s face, turning the brunette to face him.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” Greg whispered. He leaned down to place a soft kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder. He brought the sippy cup back into view. “And you trust me with this, too? Trust me to be a good Daddy to you?”

Suddenly very shy at hearing the title, Sherlock hid back in Greg’s neck. The DI rubbed the nervous neck softly.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. We won’t start out with everything at once, yeah? We’ll ease ourselves into it. But it all boils down to one thing. You being happy. And I want to make you happy, make us happy, I really do.”

Sherlock’s thin frame had started to slightly shake during Greg’s little speech. Greg could feel thin rivulets of saddened wetness trail down his neck and into his shirt and his heart broke a little.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Greg whispered before pulling Sherlock completely to his chest. “Here, Sherlock, come here, Daddy’s got you.”

“Daddy,” Sherlock whispered brokenly, like he did that night so long ago, and gripped Greg’s shirt between his hands fiercely. His bee sat squished between their two bodies.

Greg lifted the lithe body to rest firmly in his lap. Greg couldn’t believe how light Sherlock felt perched upon his legs. Guiding one arm across his back and the other to grip his head, Greg gently rocked Sherlock’s body back and forth with soft pats to the span of skin between his two shoulder blades.

“Yes, sweetheart. Daddy. Daddy loves you very, very much. He loves his little boy more than anything in the world.” Sherlock breathed in the scent of the older man. “Daddy loves his baby’s hair.” Greg rubbed his lips across the dark and curly tendrils, placing a few kissed to Sherlock’s scalp. “He also loves his little boy’s brain. And what a big one it is.” As Greg reached to place a kiss to both of Sherlock’s temples, he finally felt the Consulting Detective smile a little against the skin of his neck. “He loves his sweetheart’s eyes, his nose, both of his ears.” Five fleeting kisses had the smaller man relaxing even further into the warm body below him. “He even loves your ten cold, little fingers.” Ten fingers, ten kisses. “I love all of you, Sherlock. And I will never stop loving you. You will always have a place in my heart.”

Now it was Greg’s turn to start feeling emotional. The older man’s throat and grip on Sherlock tightened. The little detective squirmed in his arms, moving to release his own so they were free to wrap around Greg’s neck.

“Love you, Daddy,” Sherlock whispered.

Greg had never felt more elated in his life. Here was Sherlock, safe and in his arms, agreeing to let Greg take care of him. Giving him permission to love him, love him like a Daddy would his little boy. And damned if he wasn’t going to be the best man…the best Daddy he could be for the bundle on his lap.

He would start with warming his thin bundle up.

Greg adjusted his arms and hands to grip Sherlock delicately under his bottom, securing him as he rose carefully from the couch. Thin arms gripped around his neck tighter, not used to being held in the air. Greg chuckled and lightly patted Sherlock’s bottom with one of his hands.

“Daddy’s not going to drop his little boy, silly! I think we should go upstairs and have a nice warm bath, huh? You’re too cold, sweatheart,” Greg spoke playfully into Sherlock’s ear. As the D.I. reached the stairs and started to climb, he spoke on. “A nice warm bubble bath, and then we’ll get you into bed. How does that sound?”

Sherlock gripped the back of Greg’s grey t-shirt in his fist, holding on tightly to the warm man carrying him effortlessly up the flight of stairs.

“Sounds nice, Daddy,” Sherlock said in a timid and soft tone. The sound of it had Greg’s heart melting.

“It does, doesn’t it? A nice bath, warm jammies, and cuddles. I may even have a story or two if you’d like.” Greg reached the top of the stairs, making a left turn into his bedroom and then onward into the en-suite bathroom. Setting Sherlock down on the closed toilet seat, he turned to a fairly large bathtub. Quickly turning the warm water taps and adding a generous amount of bubble bath, Greg turned around to make sure Sherlock was still there. The brunette sat still, perched on top of the seat, lightly swaying his feet back and forth. As the bath filled up Greg reached over to kneel in front of Sherlock.

“Let’s get these cold clothes off, mister,” Greg said, starting with Sherlock’s sock-clad feet. Greg rolled off Sherlock’s socks, tickling lightly at the bottom of his feet. If he thought his boy’s fingers were cold, Sherlock’s toes were positively glacial. Rubbing those feet a little to encourage circulation, Greg couldn’t help but laugh at the pinched expression on the younger man’s face.

“Oh, are we a little ticklish,” Greg asked, lightly running his fingers down Sherlock’s instep. Yanking his feet away from Greg’s devilish hands, Sherlock hid behind his own, peeking through the crack in his fingers.

“Sensitive,” the little Consulting Detective replied with a hint of laughter. Greg reached up to place a light kiss on the tip of the smaller man’s nose, sinking back on his heels to continue his undressing quest.

“Okay, sweetheart. I won’t tickle you anymore.”

Sherlock looked down a little unconvincingly but lowered his feet and let Greg do his work. The DI reached up with nimble fingers and began to unbutton the buttons on his baby’s dress shirt. One by one, the buttons left the holes, allowing Greg to pull the garment off completely and lay it across the marble of the bathroom sink. Next were Sherlock’s trousers.

“Could you stand up for me, sweetie? We’re almost done,” Greg whispered lovingly. Lifting himself from the floor, he reached for the clasp on the shorter man’s trousers, unhitched them, and pulled them down and off. He turned around to fold and place them on top of the shirt. Last were Sherlock’s cotton pants, which Greg looked downward into his squirming boy’s eyes for. “Last one, yeah? Then we’ll get you all settled in the tub.” The tub which was almost halfway full, equipped with a rising layer of thick white bubbles. Sherlock looked over at the inviting warmth and turned back to Greg, nodding. “Good boy, Locky’.”

Greg used Sherlock’s surprise at the nickname as an opportune moment to quickly whisk his boy’s pants down his legs and place them atop the rest of the garments. Suddenly a tad self-conscious, Sherlock raised his hands to rest in front of his privates. Greg turned him and led him the few steps to the tub, placing his hands under Sherlock’s arms to help lift him over the edge and into the steaming, bubbly warmth.

At seeing Sherlock’s shoulders relax and hearing a great, big sigh, Greg couldn’t help but chuckle.

“Does that feel good, sweetheart? I bet it does. I have a little surprise for you.”

Greg went to the sink cupboard and reached underneath for a few items. He grabbed a bottle of baby shampoo, conditioner, body wash, a small brightly coloured bucket and a set of eight different colored bath crayons. Carrying his load back, he placed the soaps and the bucket on the floor and opened the box of crayons. Placing them all within his little boy’s reach along the ledge of the tub, Greg sat back on his haunches and looked at Sherlock happily. The little detective looked down at the crayons and back up to Greg, a wondering expression on his face. Reaching for a color, the packaging stated it to be “Leprechaun Green”, Greg leaned across the bath and drew a large letter “S” on the white tiled wall.

“See? ‘S’ for Sherlock. ‘S” for smart, sweet, and soapy. Can you draw Daddy a picture,” Greg asked his little boy. Sherlock nodded and took the green crayon from Greg’s outstretched hand, turning a little to face the wall. Grabbing “Little-Boy blue”, “Firefly Red”, and “Copper-Penny Orange”, Sherlock set off to create his masterpiece.

The submerged brunette started to draw a fairly detailed under-water scene, equipped with fish, seaweed, and shells. Greg started to lather his little boy’s hair with shampoo, then conditioner. Greg gently covered Sherlock’s eyes when it was time to rinse. Time to wash his body, Greg took a light green cloth and bathed the little body in front of him. When Sherlock reached for “Bear-Hug Brown”, Greg paused to look at the mural.

“Sweetheart, it’s so pretty. I love it,” Greg beamed at Sherlock’s flushed and slightly embarrassed face. Shrugging his shoulders a little, Sherlock turned back around to start outlining something in brown. “What are you drawing now, Locky?” Still scribbling a little, Sherlock continued to draw.

“Treasure chest, Daddy.” Greg took the moment that Sherlock was turned away to scrub lightly at his back with the soapy clothe.

“Oh, is that so? Well, Pirate Holmes, it is a fine chest, indeed,” Greg’s attempted pirate talk brought a smile to Sherlock’s face. Sherlock turned to look at him, engaged in the play.

“But it’s only for pirates,” he said, mock-seriously.

“Aye Aye, Captain. This poor soul won’t touch your loot.”

Greg reached up and ruffled his wet curls, and Sherlock looked down, smiling a bit. Bath time turned out to be fun for them both.

When Greg deemed Sherlock to be all clean, the little boy had completed both his treasure chest and a pirate ship. Greg couldn’t help but reach into his pocket and grab his phone to take a picture of his little Picasso’s masterpiece. The DI would have it developed and put on the front of his fridge.

Greg reached down to pull the plug on the tub and let the water and bubbles begin to drain. Grabbing a large, fluffy white towel from the cabinet, Greg lifted Sherlock from the tub and let the oversized material swallow him. He sat him on the toilet seat once more, and Greg took the time to carefully wipe all areas of Sherlock’s wet skin, making sure he was dry and warm. Lifting the towel-clad boy in his arms, Greg left the bathroom and walked the distance to his large bed, laying Sherlock down on his back upon the fluffy surface.

“Stay there, sweetheart. Daddy’s going to go get your jammies.” Greg left for a total of thirty seconds, the amount of time it took to gather a pair of footed bottoms, a warm thermal top, and the overstuffed bee Sherlock had taken an immediate liking to. Making his way back over to his little boy, he found Sherlock still lying there, consumed in a sea of white fabric. But looking closer, he saw his little boy nibbling on the outside of his thumb, lightly sucking the skin. Greg’s heart melted again.

When Sherlock saw Greg coming back, he pulled his finger from his mouth in embarrassment. Greg walked over quickly and spoke soothingly to the brunette.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed or shy, sweetheart. Daddy wants you to do whatever you need to feel comfortable. You could use this instead, if you’d like to.”

Reaching into his night stand, Greg pulled out a bright blue and green dummy. Grabbing it by the small ring on the front, he brought it closer to Sherlock’s face as the little boy looked up at it with longing. Greg traced the dummy lightly over the seam of his little one’s lips and with little provocation, Sherlock opened his mouth and took in the rubber nipple, lightly sucking and slurping until the rim laid flush against his mouth. He closed his eyes as he began to suck, dummy bobbing lightly against his skin. Greg knew he was smiling like an idiot but he couldn’t find the will to care. This was the calmest he had ever seen Sherlock, and also the cutest. He looked absolutely content to lie there and suck on his dummy forever.

“Alright, sweetheart. Daddy’s just going to put your jammies on and then we’ll get into bed, yeah? Does that sound good?” Greg light kissed Sherlock’s tummy, causing the little boy to giggle softly behind his dummy.

Greg opened the towel, rolling the footed pajama pants up Sherlock’s legs and then reaching up to carefully guide the little boy’s head through the hole at the top. All dressed and drowsy from his bath, Sherlock barely moved as Greg guided him further up the bed to rest against the pillows. His little love simply continued to suck on his dummy as Greg slipped down to his pants and t-shirt and slid in next to the brunette. Placing a few longer pillows on Sherlock’s other side in case he liked to roll during his sleep, Greg pulled his little boy to rest against his chest. He wrapped his arms around his baby who was now warm and sleepy, barely conscious as he leaned against his Daddy.

Reaching over to turn off the light, Greg was thankful that he had remembered to turn on the small nightlight plugged into the wall. He didn’t want Sherlock to be scared of the dark room. Humming lightly, Greg started patting against Sherlock’s back.

“I love you, my sweet boy. Daddy loves his Locky very, very much,” Greg whispered into Sherlock’s hair. His little boys’ grip tightened on his shirt and he nuzzled his face into the thin material.

“ ‘Ove you, ‘addy.”

And as he held his little boy, Greg let himself cry a few tears of love for the bundle safe in his arms.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please feel free to leave comments and feedback! That's what I live on. Even if it's about the weather--I'm all ears!


	3. Warm or Cold Milk?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John runs into Mycroft at a tiny shop in the outskirts of London. Can John help Mycroft?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I am starting to incorporate the other people into this story. Same plot line as the previous two chapters. Chapters 1 and 2 will pick up where they left off. Would love to know if you like it, if you don't, and what about it.

As John walked the streets of London, the doctor felt a small sense of pride at being able to provide something for his brilliant flatmate, even if it was only biscuits and milk. If for some reason this “special” milk from a shop a half hour away made Sherlock happy, John could admit that it was worth it. Being able to provide for someone, there was no better feeling than that.

Making his way through the cold night, John hailed a cab and set off for the shop. Despite the chill, John’s spirits were high.

The cab ride was pleasant enough, and thirty minutes later John walked into the store, smiling a little at the small bell that clicked back against the wood.

John grabbed a basket and walked to the dairy isle. Perusing the different labels and brands, John gave an exhale of relief when he saw the obscure glass. Paddington’s Dairy was the name and John grabbed four jugs of it. Maybe it was a little excessive, but just remembering Sherlock’s face when he had asked for the drink earlier was enough incentive for John to grab a fifth.

Stepping through the tea isle, John searched the shelf for his favorite Earl Grey when he ran into the last person he would ever expect to see strolling down a store isle. Dressed in a cream colored button down and a pair of casual trousers was Mycroft Holmes, supposed “minor” member of the British Government, pushing a trolley. The elder Holmes stood in front of the biscuit display with his “serious contemplation” face on. Leave it to Mycroft to scrutinize something as minuscule as a cookie.

The elder Holmes looked along the shelves in front of him, desperately trying to make his selection and leave. Discretion in his life was first and foremost, both essential and paramount, and considering certain items in his trolley were of a sensitive nature, Mycroft trusted no one but himself with procuring such things. Loneliness hit the elder Holmes like a wave, tightening his throat and tingling the space behind his eyes. The longing for someone else to buy him these things, provide for him in this way, care for him… _No. NO._ That train of thought would lead to nothing but more despondency. Mycroft gently cleared his throat and focused once more on the shelf, desiring nothing more than to leave with his purchases as quickly as he could.

Grinning slightly, John couldn't help but slowly walk up to the man whose back was turned towards him. The doctor took quiet steps until he was standing next to the politician, shoulders nearly touching.

“Recommend a brand?” John’s question nearly startled the man right out of his shoes. Mycroft whirled around, cheeks and ear burning red at being caught with his hand in the proverbial cookie jar. Well, the cookie isle. But the principle was the same.

The elder Holmes uncharacteristically sputtered for a second at being surprised, then regained his composure and turned to face John.

“Dr. Watson, a pleasure to see you again,” Mycroft said formally. The doctor rolled his eyes at Mycroft’s propriety.

“You know, people who kidnap me more than twice get to call me John.” Mycroft nodded his head in acquiesce, albeit a little guiltily.

“Very well, John.” Mycroft lifted his hand up onto the third shelf of the aisle and retrieved a box of expensive biscuits. He handed them over to the doctor, peeking into his cart as he did.

“Paddington’s? For Sherlock, I assume,” Mycroft said with a knowing look. John rolled his eyes again at the man.

“Maybe I just fancied a glass.” Mycroft shook his head and looked pointedly at his cart. At all five jugs. John looked a little sheepish. “Right. Thought buying in bulk was best.”

“My brother had an obsession with that brand when we were children, something he and I both shared. Haven’t the faintest idea why. We would drink it in obscene amounts,” Mycroft admitted, staring at the tender reminder of his childhood, eyes tinged with a small amount of...not jealousy, but wanting, desire. As trivial a thought it was, he wondered what it would feel like to have someone like John purchasing milk for him to drink, what it would feel like to be held, fed. John watched the man’s eyes conflict before him.

The doctor was flattered that Mycroft deemed him worthy of such an intimate tale. The man didn't exactly seem like a poster boy for childhood memories. But the way he talked about this memory, the look in his eyes as he spoke of what sounded like a sacred childhood tradition. It made John want to hold the man in the middle of the store aisle.

Mycroft’s eyes became clear again.

“Served cold, it was one of our favouties. I’m tempted to purchase some myself. This is one of the few proprietors who still sells it.” John looked a little guilty as he went to speak.

“I may have snagged the last one. Here, take some.” John reached into his trolley and grabbed one of the jugs despite Mycroft’s protests. Dropping the milk into his trolley, he couldn't help but sneak a quick look at the man’s other items. There were basics, tissues, tea, biscuits. John was about to look away when a few smaller jars hiding behind a box caught his eye. Cans of baby food—three banana and two peach flavoured. Mycroft was buying food for a little one?

John’s eyes looked up into Mycroft’s red face, a caught-expression taking over his features. Even the tips of his ears were an adorable shade of crimson.

“Babysitting, Mycroft?” The elder Holmes shook his head.

“Anthea. For her baby,” Mycroft responded quickly. John’s eyes widened a little, slightly suspicious but not showing it.

“Anthea? She was pregnant? I saw her only a month ago and she didn't even look it,” the doctor was amazed. Mycroft adverted his eyes.

“Yes, well, she is a woman of many secrets, Doctor. John.” Mycroft noticed that John was still looking between his cart and himself, like he was piecing together a puzzle. After a moment, Mycroft cleared his throat and went to reach for his own trolley.

“Well, John, I thank you for the milk. That was very kind of you. I really should be going, must get these things to Anthea—,” Mycroft made to move down along with his cart when John maneuvered his to block the aisle. John couldn’t help it, these Holmes men, this man, did something to him, stirred feelings inside of himself he had long thought dormant. Reaching out to Mycroft, John placed his hand upon the elder brother’s forearm, causing the man to stop and look into his eyes in confusion.

“Listen, Mycroft. I know we haven’t been…aren't that close, but if there’s anything you need, you just call me, yeah? Or pick me up in one of your mysterious black cars. Preferably the former, you have my number.” John pointedly looked into Mycroft’s cart and then back into his eyes. “Anything, Mycroft, I mean it. I’m your friend. Call me, text me. Alright?” Mycroft was momentarily stunned. And that didn't happen often. So far it had occurred twice with this man in a matter of ten minutes. John Watson truly was a mysterious man, a mysteriously different man.

‘Does he know? He couldn't, it’s not possible,” Mycroft thought. His inner thinking was interrupted by Johns hand on his arm which had made its way onto his back to place a few firm taps. Mycroft thought they were one of the most comforting feelings in the world. He nodded to John’s inquisitive eyes.

“Thank you, Doctor. I hope you have a pleasant evening,” Mycroft said in a polite dismissal as he made his way down the lane to the check out.

“You too, Mycroft. Have a good night’s sleep, okay?”

Mycroft didn't want to respond, embarrassed at his reaction to those words and thanked the stars that his back was turned so the Doctor couldn't see his face, red with ridiculous sentiment. Quickly paying for his items, the elder Holmes walked out of the store and briefly looked back in time to see John waving at him, a warm smile on his face. It had been so long since anyone had smiled towards him like that. And that, along with the pats on his back and the jug of milk John had given him would be more than enough to help him fall asleep tonight. Those few moments of intimacy were more than he had experienced in a very long time.

The few “extra” items in his bags wouldn't hurt either.

As John paid for his milk, tea, and biscuits, he couldn't help but think of Mycroft and his reactions to the tiny shows of affection he had given the man. It made John so damn sad. The Holmes’ brothers were so starved for love and care, no matter how much they denied feelings of sentiment and emotion. And he could tell that Mycroft had been lying tonight. John knew exactly who those jars of baby food had been intended for.

And that made John feel even more unhappy, knowing that Mycroft had to buy these items on his own, no one to provide for him. The doctor wanted to scream… _I’m here, let me take care of you!_ He hoped the poor man would succumb to a good night’s sleep. He deserved it. And much more. And as unlikely as it probably was, John dreamed he could be given the chance to give it to him. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment, my friends! Comment til your heart's content!


	4. It's Okay To Want This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is finally able to help Mycroft. But angst soon becomes prevalent in their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long to be posted. Life is a tornado and I'm stuck in it! Hope you like where this is headed, especially the ending. From now on it's going to be a mix of angst, love, and nappies. Feedback is always loved!

John returned back to 221b, slightly surprised to find that Sherlock wasn’t buried behind his microscope as he had left him. Placing the milk in the fridge, John turned out the lights, locked up, and walked the stairs to his bedroom for the night. Walking into his room, John couldn’t help but let his eyes stray to the black duffle bag that was hidden underneath the desk in his bedroom. Always there, always waiting. John moved to his bed and sat down, recalling his impromptu meeting with Mycroft at the market earlier that night.

The elder Holmes had been jumpy and nervous when John had caught him pursuing the biscuit aisle like he was decrypting an ancient text. John grinned, recalling Mycroft’s surprise at seeing him. Then the doctor’s face softened into a smile, remembering the way Mycroft had appeared so calm and unguarded recalling stories of his and Sherlock’s childhood. It was such a far cry from his normal stoic self.

And then finding the surprising contents of Mycroft’s trolley.

John looked again towards his black duffle and the smile on his face faded, leaving a dejected expression in its wake. Would he ever be able to use its contents? John had told Mycroft to call him if he ever needed help, making it clear to the elder Holmes that John intentions were honorable and that his offer to help in any way was indeed genuine.

But what if he hadn't been forceful enough? He thought he had made a connection with Mycroft. _That story of the milk_ , John thought vehemently. He was so sure he was connecting emotionally with the elder Holmes. If that wasn't a blatant invitation to go to Mycroft’s townhouse and prepare him a bot—glass of said milk, then John didn't know what was. But the one thing that John did not want to appear as was presumptuous and inadvertently scare Mycroft away.

John willed his phone to ring, praying that maybe, just maybe, Mycroft might need him the way John craved to be needed. Lifting himself from his bed, the retired soldier walked over to his small desk and placed the duffle on top of the wooden surface. He unzipped the bag, parted the flaps, and peered inside at the contents.

One side held a light blue blanket that felt like butter to the touch. In a corner sat a soft, stuffed hedgehog, smiling up at John amidst the sea of blue fabric. Running his fingers over the top of the blankie, John couldn’t help but let his mind wander to how adorable Mycroft would look wrapped in its comfort. Or how loveable he would appear sucking on the matching dummy and bottle set, while John rocked him back in forth. Or how absolutely sweet he would seem as John lifted him against his chest, laying Mycroft’s head against his shoulder on the identical blue spit-up rag, to burp his little charge after his cold bottle of milk.

There were also several toys, stuffed animals, nappies, wipes, powder, a few pairs of soft onesies and shirts, and an endearing stuffed animal soother called the “plushy monkey”. A few other items sat in the remaining space of the duffle. But he was getting much too ahead of himself. Mycroft had shown no interest in John or his implications at the shoppe.

With a heavy heart, the doctor zipped the bag and placed it reverently back under his desk. And as much as it pained John, he forced himself to understand there was a huge possibility he would never be able to use those items.

That thought brought moisture to the doctor’s eyes as he sat once again on his bed next to his dormant phone. He knew without a single doubt in his mind that he would be the best daddy ever. He had so much love to give, but no one to share it with. Two thin fell down his face and a familiar ache to settle in his leg. Just as he was leaning his head down to fold in his hands and have a good cry, John jumped a little in surprise at his phone’s ringtone.

With shaking hands, John picked up the phone and briefly saw the “blocked number” on the screen before unlocking it and placing it by his ear. Voice thick with emotion, John spoke into the receiver.

"Hel-," John had to clear his voice. "Hello?" For a few seconds, the other end of the line was silent. It wasn't until John was about to speak again when a small, scared voice spoke up.

"J-John," a small voice spoke up, one that sounded amazingly similar to the man he had seen in the market. "John, John, John." John's eyebrows raised and his eyes widened. That sounded an awful lot like…no, it was definitely Mycroft. And he sounded absolutely terrified.

"Mycroft? Mycroft, what's wrong," the doctor asked in a worried tone. John heard sniffling and crying in the background. What the hell had happened?

“John. J-John,” Mycroft cried through the receiver. “He’s g-gunna get m-me. You said you h-help, J-John p’ease. John,” the frantic voice wailed through the phone. The doctor’s head was reeling. Was someone attacking Mycroft? The man- the frightened and extremely young sounding man- sounded as if he was on the verge of a panic attack. The doctor inside John came to life.

“Mycroft, sweetheart, listen to me, yeah? It’s John, listen to John. Everything is ok, take a deep breath for me, alright?” John spoke in soothing, docile tones, hoping to stop the erratic breathes on the opposite end of the line. While Mycroft’s breathing returned to some semblance of normal, his crying- his absolutely pitiful crying that had John’s stomach in knots- did not.

“P’ease John, I don’t wan’ him to get me,” Mycroft whispered. John was up off his bed in an instant, making a beeline to his desk drawer to retrieve his revolver.

“Mycroft, is someone there with you,” John asked quickly. Mycroft coughed, sending static through the phone.

“Don’t know, John. Saw him when I was s’eepin. P’ease, help.” So he had had a nightmare? John was quick to reply.

“Mycroft, I’m going to come over. Is that okay, can John come make sure you’re all right?” When no answer came through, John became worried. “Mycroft,” John spoke loudly.

“I nodded, John,” Mycroft spoke slightly defensive, obviously not coherent enough to realize that John couldn’t see him nod. John reached his bedroom door, intent to breeze down both flights of stairs and into the bitter night. “John. John I’m-,” Mycroft seemed hesitant to finish his sentence. John could hear an edge of apprehension in the Holmes’ voice.

“What, sweetheart,” John spoke encouragingly. The other end let out another large sniffle.

“I-I’m w-wet,” Mycroft stuttered out through his tears. “D-didn’t mean t-to.” John’s eyes closed in awe. While he felt absolutely terrible about the amount of distress Mycroft was in, he couldn’t help but feel a bolt of…thankfulness run through his body. Mycroft, guarded, reserved Mycroft Holmes, was trusting him with his deepest, most private secret. And damned if he wasn’t going to be perfect for him. It took him only seconds to cross his room and retrieve the black duffle, sliding the strap over his shoulder. Once the bag was secure, John spoke into the phone again.

“Mycroft, sweetie, it’s alright, ok. It’s all going to be just fine. I’m coming over right now and we’ll get you all fixed up, ok?” John sighed in relief when he heard Mycroft’s slightly calmer voice.

“Mhm, John,” the scared voice replied.

“That’s a brave boy. You’re such a good boy for calling me. Stay on the line with me, alright?”

John, renewed with hope and confidence, ran down the stairs and out onto Baker Street where he promptly hailed the first cab he saw.

**< ><><>**

The drive to Mycroft’s townhouse was quick, at least it was after John had shoved a wad of notes to the cabbie as incentive. John stayed on the phone with Mycroft the whole time, even listening to him breathe as he lightly dozed off for a moment. Pulling outside the posh neighborhood in less than twenty minutes, John grabbed his bag and ran up the steps, using the key Sherlock had pickpocketed from Mycoft some time ago to unlock the front door. John ran through the foyer and up the stairs to where he assumed the master suite and Mycroft would be. Throwing open the door, John looked around but couldn’t find the elder Holmes.

“Mycroft? It’s John. Where are you, buddy?” As soon as John heard the whimpering, he immediately dropped down on all fours by the side of the bed and peered under. “Oh, Mycroft, it’s ok. John’s here. Let’s get you out from under here, yeah?” Mycroft’s puffy and tear-stained eyes looked uncertain.

“Is he gone, John,” whispered the curled up man. “The dream man?” John made a show of looking around the room before he stooped down to Mycroft’s eyesight again.

“He’s most definitely gone, buddy. I promise. It’s just you and I here. Let’s get you cleaned up,” John spoke softly, so as not to scare him. Because even though the smell didn’t bother John in the slightest, Mycroft had to be very uncomfortable.

Grabbing Mycroft’s hand, John carefully guided him out from under the bed, being mindful of his head, and sat him on his bottom- his very wet bottom. The frightened Holmes’ didn’t meet John’s eyes as he sniffled and wiped vigorously at his eyes. John gently moved Mycroft’s hands away and wiped tenderly at the tear-stained cheeks himself.

Reaching over for his bag, John grabbed a changing mat, fresh nappy, some cream, powder, and wipes.

“Ok, sweetie, let’s get you clean.” Grabbing Mycroft under the arms, John placed him on top of the mat and reached for his soiled pajama bottoms. Seeing Mycroft’s panicked eyes, he reached one more time for his bag and brought forth the plushy monkey, John’s secret weapon. The doctor squeezed the plush toy, turning on the internal heartbeat, and set it in Mycroft’s arms. The distressed man pulled the stuffed animal close and began to slow his breathing.

John couldn’t help but smile at the adorable moment. Reaching for the drawstring on the silk sleep pants, John was able to lower them and his wet pants down and off the man’s legs. As he grabbed a wipe and started to clean the dirty areas around Mycroft’s thighs and bottom, John asked the question he had been dying to know the answer to.

“Mycroft? Who was the bad man? The one who scared you in your dream?” John used his soft and loving tone, the one reserved for small children, which in this case was exactly what Mycroft was. The little boy hiding his face behind the stuffed monkey shook his head in fear. "It's ok to be scared, Mycroft. But I won't let anyone hurt you, ok? I'm John, _your_ John. I can even be--," John gulped nervously. "All I want to do is help, sweetie. Do you remember who it was?"

Mycroft nodded frantically. John reached for his hand.

"Who, sweetheart? Who scared you so much," John asked while rubbing his thumb across bony fingers. Mycroft peered out from behind his wall of fur to whisper.

"M-m-magnuth-th-en."


	5. A Promise to Protect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's John to the rescue! And maybe someone else...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay in posting. Literally, these last few months (jeez, its been that long) was chock full of a number of terrible events that occurred and kept me from writing. But I am happy to say that I am once again on the tracks for this piece. So sorry again.  
> On another note, I hope you enjoy this chapter. To clear some timeline questions, the night that John went to Mycroft's in the last chapter was the same night that Sherlock went to Greg's; I just wrote it with the chapter breaks so there were multiple perspectives of that same night. And in this universe, Moriarty is alive and still a consulting criminal but has been incognito for a while. Magnussen escaped before Sherlock could shoot him. So I can safely say that the boys are in for some angst, but Greg and John will be there to help them through...or will they?

John’s entire faced darkened for a brief moment before he composed himself, putting on a more solemn expression for Mycroft’s sake. Any mention of Magnussen had John’s face turning practically murderous. He despised the man, just as much as he hated Moriarty. Basically anyone who had fucked with the Holmes brothers was on John’s hit list, and that was not a place any sane person desired to be.

But John’s main concern now was Mycroft and the man--no, boy right now—was scared to death because of that vile excuse of a man, a fear John understood, yet was slightly confused about. The only time he could remember Mycroft associating with Magnussen was on that fateful Christmas night, when the genius escaped before the elder Holmes’ men could apprehend him. Nothing particularly scarring about that, but Mycroft’s shaking was alarming and John needed to know why in order to attempt to help the shaking figure lying in front of him.

Grabbing another moist wipe, the doctor cleaned the rest of Mycroft’s pelvis and reached for the baby powder.

“Sweetie? Can you tell me why Magnussen scares you,” John asked. Mycroft hid behind his stuffed animal.

“He’th the Bad Man,” Mycroft whispered. John didn’t like the sound of that, not at all, but he kept lightly pressing for information.

“Why is he the Bad Man, sweetie,” he questioned. If that son-of-a-bitch even laid a finger on the little boy in front of him, there wouldn't be a place far enough on Earth where he could hide. Mycroft let out a shuddered breathe as John finished his powdering and arranged the nappy under his hips, taping up the sides.

“He scar’theth me. He licked my fa’the and touched me. But I wa’thnt allowed to tell,” Mycroft whispered. Son of a motherfuc--. John closed his eyes, took a deep breathe, and counted to ten. When he was done, his face was completely composed. He would need to find out the exact details of what had transpired between the two men, but now was not the time.

Mycroft was clearly in a fragile state, if his lisp was anything to go by, and John was not willing to push. The doctor inside the soldier knew that the elder Holmes was most likely ashamed of his speech impediment. Yet the most important thing at the moment was to calm the little one down, and John only knew of one fail-safe for the time being.

Paddington’s Milk.

John leaned down to give a light kiss to Mycroft’s exposed belly, smiling at the little chuckle that was muffled by brown fur.

“I’m sorry, let’s not think of that right now, sweetheart. How about you and I go downstairs for some milk,” John asked. Mycroft peeked an eye out from behind his new friend and nodded, absolutely content with the idea of a nice cold bottle of milk.

“Alright then,” John said, placing his hands under Mycroft’s arms and lifting easily. Settling him on his hip, John gave a little chuckle at the Mycroft’s shocked expression. Immediately, the auburn-haired little boy stuck his face right into the doctor’s neck, one hand gripped tight around the stuffed monkey while the other held tight to the fabric of John’s shirt.

“Oh, who’s my big boy,” John said playfully as he adjusted his grip under Mycroft’s thighs. It was a lie though, because Mycroft was anything but big. He couldn't have weighed anywhere close to the recommended weight of a man his age and size. It was entirely too easy to hoist him up on his hip, and while John loved the fact that he could carry the little guy while he got to rest his head on his shoulder, it concerned the doctor within him.

Mycroft whined slightly and shook his head.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart,” John asked. Mycroft snuggled his head closer to the warm skin of his carrier’s neck.

“M’not a big boy,” he said quietly. John nodded understandingly, if a little sadly too. He really wasn't, not physically or emotionally at the moment.

“No, you aren't, are you? You’re my baby, right? My good little baby,” John whispered into his auburn hair. Mycroft nodded and then shook his head again.

“Nots’ when I make a meth’,” Mycroft lisped out, referring to his accident. John stopped walking so he could devote his full attention to the bundle in his arms.

“Mycroft, look at me. Come on, sweetie, look at John,” said the doctor. Bright blue eyes met his tentatively. “That’s a good boy. See? You are good, sweetheart, no matter what you do. You did just what I wanted you to do. You had a little accident but that’s what babies do, and that’s why I put you in a nappy, so you don’t ever have to worry about that. That’s what they’re there for. I love taking care of you and nothing you ever do would make you bad, alright?” John lightly kissed the tip of Mycroft’s nose and then his forehead, getting his own nose bumped when the little guy nodded. “Well, alright then. Let’s go get some milk, yeah? A nice bottle before going back to bed.”

John finished walking down the stairs and went on to the kitchen, the fairly large kitchen with too many drawers and cabinets to count. Knowing the man had baby food, John suspected a he could locate a bottle somewhere in this maze. But looking at all the possible hiding places, finding a bottle was going to be harder than expected. John realized that he should have grabbed the one in his own bag.

It now seemed to be a big mistake on his part.

With Mycroft calmed slightly, John didn’t want to disturb him with questions. So it was up to him to search this labyrinth of a kitchen for a clean bottle. The milk was easy enough to locate and with that on the counter, John set off on the hunt. One cabinet opened, another closed. Open. Closed. Open, closed.

“Silly John should be able to find it,” the doctor whispered. Open. Closed. “Aha!” John pulled out a baby blue bottle from a cabinet in a victory that was short-winded when he saw that the top was missing. Maybe John imagined the chuffed sound from his shoulder that sounded a little pleased. Two more drawers and the matching cap was found. With one hand, he poured his bundle a drink. “Here we go, lad. Nice and cold.”

John leaned over and kissed Mycroft’s forehead. The doctor pulled back in shock. The boy in his arms was burning up.

“Mycroft, honey, how long have you not felt well,” John asked. A part of him felt ashamed that he didn't realize it before. He was a damn doctor. Mycroft shrugged in his arms. “Let’s go back upstairs and get this in your tummy.”

Carrying both Mycroft and the bottle, John climbed the stairs once again.

“Let me just find a wet cloth to cool you off and then we’ll get you down, I promise,” John spoke into drowsy man’s soft hair. John walked down the hallway and opened a door hoping to find a washroom. But instead of seeing a sink and bathtub, John set his eyes on the last thing he expected to see. Behind this door was a nursery, if you could call it that. It was very understated, only the necessary furniture inside, but John knew Mycroft to be a person who didn't enjoy superfluous living. There was a dark wood crib with blue sheets and a matching rocking chair in the corner. And a fairly large chest was placed against one wall which John hoped was filled to the brim with toys Mycroft more than deserved.

All in all, it looked just perfect at the moment and John couldn’t have been happier to carry his bundle over to the crib and lower him down onto its soft surface. Mycroft vaguely noticed that he had been put down, but didn’t care enough to open his eyes far. He simply snuffled happily into the bedding beneath his head. John ran his hand over the soft tendrils of hair and placed the bottle of milk within arm’s reach in the crib.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie, I’m just going to get a few little things,” John whispered. Leaving the room, he quickly found the sought-after bathroom and gathered a few wet cloths as well as his duffle bag.

John came back into the nursery with his arms loaded and quickly set to work. He reached for the hem of Mycroft’s sleep shirt and lifted it softly from his upper half, stopping to settle a moist cloth on his back and another on his neck. Reaching for his duffle, he pulled out a dummy, the blue blanket, and the stuffed hedgehog. He placed the blanket beneath Mycroft’s head and the hedgehog in the corner of the crib facing outward, mainly because it looked adorable and he thought the little guy might like it. But before he gave the lad his dummy, he wanted to get a little liquid inside of him. John traced the seam of the little lad’s lips with the bottle, almost cooing at how adorable it was to see him open his mouth and start rhythmically sucking and bobbing. Lastly, John brought the rocking chair over by the bed and sat down right next to the sleepy bundle.

But a little milk wasn’t going to stop Mycroft’s fever. John needed medicine and obviously couldn't leave to go get some. So he did what he thought was best; picked up his mobile and dialed a friend. The only friend he thought he could trust with this secret.

Mycroft must have seen him reach for his phone because he stopped drinking his bottle to talk.

“Who call,” he asked tiredly. John reached over and placed his hand on Mycroft’s back and started patting.

“John’s calling a friend to bring you some medicine, sweetheart, so we can get you feeling better. She’s very special and I trust her completely. She does this too, helps little ones. We’re going to make you feel better. Is it alright if she comes here, sweetheart,” John asked. Mycroft simply nodded and went back to drinking his bottle, convinced that John was telling the truth and relieved that the doctor was taking care of him so he didn’t have to.

“Thank you, baby.” John kept patting while he dialed, only reaching over to replace the nipple of the empty bottle with the dummy, watching as it received the same treatment. John felt relieved when the other side of the line picked up.

“Mary? Hello, it’s John. I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear from all of you, any type of feedback is lovely. Thank you for sticking with this story-- more is on the way!


	6. Pesky Mobiles (And Not the Spinning Ones!)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little Sherlock answers Daddy's phone...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry to all who have stuck with this story and my others as well. I recently lost a member of my family and the writing muse left me completely for a longer period of time than I had anticipated. I am finally back with a new chapter, and a new one for "This Is What's Missing" on the way as well. Thank you for those who have kept with this one through my hiatus and the lovely comments and kudos that continue to fuel my creative fire. Updates on these two stories will be fairly regular from now on. Thank you for not abandoning this story, it really means a great deal to me. And now, onto the chapter!

With Mary on her way, John only had one more call to make. The doctor picked up his mobile and pressed the first speed dial on his keypad. As it rang, John ran his free palm across Mycroft’s back, rhythmically applying firm, pressured pats in between his shoulder blades. The body below his hand sighed happily and nuzzled his face further into the lush fabric of his soft crib’s bedding.

The call went to Sherlock’s voicemail, which John ignored in favor of dialing Greg, knowing there was a large chance Sherlock might be with the DI.

After multiple rings, the other line answered with a click and a soft giggle.

"Lo',” a whisper came through the speaker. A whisper that, John realized, sounded nothing like Greg. Faint footsteps could be heard in the background as the doctor listened closely. John lifted the phone to be sure he had the right number and replaced it, confused, back on his ear.

“Um…yes, hello. Is Greg there, by any chance,” the doctor asked. More giggling came through the speaker and John became even more confused. Excited gusts of breathe came through the slightly garbled speaker as if the person on the other line was trying to hide, but was too excited to be completely covert.

“Daddy’s cleanin’ somefin’ upstairs right now, and I don’t fink’ I’m llowed’ to use the phone.” The doctor knew the voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place his finger on it. For all he knew, it almost sound like—

“ _Sherlock, love, I’m all finished. Let’s get some new jammies on…Sherlock!What are you doing with Daddy’s phone?”_

The conversation grew a little faint as the phone was lowered down, but John could still hear everything quite clearly.

_“It rang, Daddy, so I picked’d it up.”_

A big sigh and what sounded like footsteps approached the phone’s speaker.

_“Do you think it’s a good idea to play with Daddy’s phone, Locky?”_

“Wait,” John thought. “Locky?”

_“N-no D-daddy.”_

A rather large sniffle made its way through the speaker.

“ _Oh, no Locky, I didn’t mean to snap.”_

John heard another sniffle and what he could guess were impending tears.

_“S-s-sorry, j-just…thought it was impo’tant an’ you needed it.”_

  _“It’s alright sweetheart, come here. That’s it, everything’s fine, Daddy’s not cross. Just no more answering my phone, alright. You never know, it could be mean old Anderson, and we wouldn’t want that now would we? No, I know. That’s my good boy. Sssh, sssh, it’s alright, no more tears, ok? Daddy loves his Locky very much."_

John could finally match the voice he heard through the phone with a face, one he would have never expected.

Greg was Sherlock’s daddy, just like he was for Mycroft. And now that he knew this, the little things that Greg had been doing for Sherlock, from the concerned glances to the recent routine punishments of Anderson and Donovan, all made sense.

For a moment, John felt a tad uncomfortable for intruding on such an intimate moment, but the intrigue he felt outweighed his guilt. The conversation on the other line sounded almost identical to one that he and Mycroft had had earlier and he couldn’t help but keep listening.

_“It’s ok, sweetheart, I think my little boy just needs to get right back to sleep, right?”_

_"Mhmm.”_

_"And Daddy just finished laying out new jammies.”_

_“Wif’ bees on them?”_

_“Lots and lots of bees, Locky.”_

_“Love bees, Daddy.”_

_“I know, sweetheart. Let’s go upstairs, yeah?”_

_"Wait, Daddy. Phone.”_

_"Oh, thank you. Can’t lose that now, can we? Hmm? I might get a call from work and then--- Shit! Sherlock, how long has this call been on?”_

_"Dunno Daddy.”_

The phone rustled and an awkward silence took over in which John knew that Greg had the phone to his ear but was too nervous to say anything. The doctor decided to take the first plunge.

“Um, hi…Greg?” the doctor asked.

“Er...John, how are you doing mate?”

“I’m doing right fine, Daddy,” John lightly joked.

“Shit, you heard the whole thing? Everything,” Greg really started to sound worried.

“Listen, Greg, it’s fine, it’s all fine,” the doctor said reassuringly. John felt that since he was now privy to likely the most intimate secret both Greg and Sherlock had, it was only fair to let the DI in on his own. John rubbed his hand upward on Mycroft’s back until he felt auburn hair tickle his hand as he caressed it lightly. “In fact, you wouldn't believe where I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feel free to leave feedback or truly anything that you fancy leaving. I am writing furiously to finish the next chapter!


	7. Mary to the Rescue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary arrives with supplies and Mycroft has a revelation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this chapter. More is on the way!

John spent the entire time waiting for Mary sick with worry.

Mycroft’s fever was higher and his body had broken out in a cold sweat, prompting John to swaddle the shivering Holmes in a mountain of blankets. After a while of John rubbing Mycroft’s feverish back, the little boy woke up from his short nap feeling absolutely dreadful.

Mycroft cracked his eyes open, just a teeny bit, enough to see the blonde man sitting before him with a very concerned look on his face.

He didn’t want bother Mr. John because the nice doctor had been so wonderful to him already and he didn’t want to push his luck. But right now he felt worse than he ever had before, and he was scared. Unable to help it, he started crying, small, quiet little sniffles that broke John’s heart.

He wanted Daddy. Daddy??…Mr. John, Mycroft reminded himself. Mr. John was acting so nice to him, but he was scared that the lovely doctor would laugh and get up and leave at any moment. He promised himself that he would try and be a good boy for Mr. John so he wouldn’t leave him all alone. He didn’t want to be alone again.

“D-d-da-J-Jo-John,” Mycroft whispered forlornly past the dummy between his lips. The plastic soother fell from his lips in a fit of coughs, John quick to help lift Mycroft up and open his airways.

“Hey, little man, I’m here.” The doctor, who had noticed what Mycroft had begun to call him tried to contain his giddiness and lightly grabbed underneath his armpits, lifting gently. John held on tight to the overheated and shivering bundle in his arms. Mycroft’s poor body couldn’t decide if it was hot or cold. John walked slowly over to the rocking chair against the wall. “How about we sit up a little? One little boy doesn’t feel well, I know, love.”

That made Mycroft start to cry even louder. He was so confused and didn’t understand why this man was being so nice to him. No one had ever spoken to him like John did, except his brother Sherlock. He missed him.

His grip on John’s shoulders tightened and he pressed his face into the warm neck, body shaking with the force of his crying. John tried to loosen Mycroft’s grip a little, reaching for his discarded dummy in hopes of soothing the little in his arms, but it only served to make him cry harder.

“Please don’t cry, sweetie. Everything’s going to be alright. We’re going to stay right here together and have a nice rock,” the doctor tried consolingly. The sound of his voice seemed to soothe Mycroft, so he kept going. “I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” Mycroft lifted his face just enough to look John in the eyes.

“P-p’omise,” Mycroft whispered. “Stay wif’ me, p’ease.” John lightly grasped his little boy's chin and looked straight into his eyes.

“I promise, love. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here for as long as you want me to be, because I’m here now, and I care about you a great deal,” John said. “Do you understand that I’m not leaving?”

Mycroft started thinking to himself. He did. He trusted this man to not leave and to take care of him because he didn’t lie. He changed him and made him a bottle. And now he was going to make him feel better, and Mycroft, for the first time in a long time, didn't feel the need to worry any more. It took one look into the sincere blue eyes of his doctor and all his uncertainties went away.

Mycroft tried to give him a sniffly smile, nodding at John’s question and returning his head to his caretaker’s shoulder. John’s hand reached up to pat at Mycroft’s back.

“John—D-daddy no leave,” Mycroft whispered, clinging to the doctor fiercely.

John’s breathe caught in his throat. Oh, _oh_. Words John never thought he would hear. John brought his lips tenderly to Mycroft’s forehead, pressing down softly and releasing with a soft “mwuah”.

“That’s my boy, Daddy won't leave. We’ll get you all fixed up soon and you’ll feel so much better.”

Mycroft still felt overwhelmed and sickly, but Daddy had promised to make him feel better and he trusted him. So after a while of rocking back and forth, the motions so soothing, the tiny diplomat couldn’t understand why he was still crying. And that made him cry even more.

John check his phone for the tenth time that night when he heard a firm knock on the front door. Knowing Mary, a woman of questionable yet, in this moment, useful skill was able to unlock the door on her own, John called down as quietly as he could without agitating the little one in his arms. Mycroft still winced at the quiet yell and closed his eyes against the searing pain in his head.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to yell. Please don’t cry anymore love, you’re breaking my heart,” John whispered pleadingly. It was killing him that his little boy was still hurting and he hadn’t been able to do anything truly helpful.

Just as John was about to get up and investigate why Mary was taking so long, the blonde woman walked through the nursery door with multiple bags and a bottle in her hands.

“Sorry, loves. Had to find the kitchen for a few things,” Mary said, walking over to the rocking chair, bottle of juicy-medicine. “Your medicine, kind sir.” John reached out a grateful hand.

“Gods Mary, I can’t thank you enough,” John said appreciatively. Mary smiled warmly and crouched down near the pair.

“It was no bother, really. How’s the little patient?”

“I feel like I’m doing everything wrong; he won’t leave my neck or stop crying,” John whispered frantically. “I’m a bloody doctor, I should be able to do something!”

“That’s what babies do, love. They cry,” Mary said consolingly. Placing her hand on Mycroft’s bare shoulder, she started rubbing gentle, calming circles. “Sweetie, it’s ok, don’t cry. If you drink this, you’ll feel so much better, John and I promise. Don’t we John?”

Catching on, John nodded.

“Oh we do, we promise,” the doctor spoke.

Mycroft lifted his head at the word “promise”. Daddy had kept all of his promises, and this was a friend of Daddy’s. So Mycroft, still tearing up, lifted his head out of John’s neck and reached for the bottle.

John looked extremely relieved.

“Oh, thank you,” John whispered, both to Mary and Mycroft. John smiled as he heard the little bundle’s quiet suckling. Both adults kept encouraging him until the juice and medicine cocktail was empty and he had returned his tear-stained face into John’s neck. “Such a good boy, thank you.”

Mary stood up and walked over towards the crib, reaching in to grab the soft blue blanket and stuffed hedgehog from amongst the bedding. She draped the soft fabric over Mycroft’s shoulder and placed the new friend on a thin shoulder, fluffy nose tickling his cheek. One of Mycroft's hands grabbed a soft paw and pulled it towards his chest.

Mary put her hand on Mycroft's head for a quick moment, giving it a soft pet through and moved to sit upon the crib, watching the two boys slowly rock. She looked up into John's anxious face, who was quick to whisper his transgressions.

“My first chance with him and I can’t even get him to stop crying—”

“John—”

“Gods, Mary, I hate seeing him cry—”

“John—”

“I’ve probably emotionally scarred him—”

“JOHN!”

“What,” the doctor asked, startled at the heated whisper. Mary pointed silent but animatedly towards Mycroft who had fallen asleep in John’s arms, this time without any shivering or uncomfortable snuffles. One of little Mycroft’s hands was clutched tightly around his stuffed hedgehog’s paw, while the other gripped John’s pointer and middle fingers in his own. He seemed completely content to rest his head on John’s chest and settle down for a well-deserved sleep.

John gave a quiet, relieved sigh, careful not to wake the sleeping body in his arms. Mary raised her hand and gave John a mock-salute.

“Congratulations, Captain, on yet another successful mission,” Mary whispered warmly. John chuckled light and warm.

“Invading Afghanistan might have been a tad easier than this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always you lovely people, please feel free to leave feedback. I'd love to hear from you all.


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